by Susan S. Keiser
Is frantic, wild. It jars me from dreams,
a bird - trapped this side of the darkness.
She hurls herself against the night,
blood on the glass, her heart an arrow.
I think I will never catch such a fighter,
but she is tired. She trembles under my hand,
I open the window, then slowly, my fingers.
She is stilI. I wait, palm open. I blink
and then she's gone, out into the world,
leaving this empty nest.
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